


Still Backwards

by Ellis_Hendricks



Series: Completely Backwards [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-31
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-13 09:21:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10510881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ellis_Hendricks/pseuds/Ellis_Hendricks
Summary: Sequel to my earlier story, 'Completely Backwards', set post series 4 (and with some spoilers for 'The Final Problem'). Sherlock and Molly are expecting their first child, but there are a few significant people that Sherlock omitted to tell. Sherlolly - but then I'd have thought that was obvious! Reads and reviews would be lovely. Originally posted on FF.net.





	1. Chapter 1

After what felt like about ten minutes, Sherlock finally withdrew the bow from his violin and turned to face him with questioning eyes. He was composing again, it seemed, which John took to be a good sign these days; he knew it focused his friend's mind, kept the demons at bay. But for God's sake, he'd been listening to the same refrain on a loop for almost forty minutes.

"Didn't you hear me?" he asked.

"Clearly not," Sherlock replied, slightly tersely.

"Not always that clear, no," John replied. "You have been known to just ignore me." Make that most of the time, he silently added.

Sherlock was looking at him expectantly, as though waiting for the reason for the interruption.

"I'm trying to write, Sherlock," John explained, gesturing to his open laptop on the table.

"You have a bedroom," Sherlock replied, jabbing his bow in the direction of the upper floor. "A very nice, completely refurbished bedroom, which I believe has a very favourable wi-fi signal."

Despite the huge structural repair and wholesale refurbishment of 221B, one thing hadn't changed – although John half-heartedly fought against it, the living room was still Sherlock's domain, his possessions, obsessions and ephemera creeping into every corner and sprawling across every surface. All except for the new yellow chair, which Sherlock insisted remain exactly as is.

"Rosie's asleep," John explained. "Although actually…" – he nodded his head towards the violin still in Sherlock's hand – "probably not."

It seemed pointless to go on about it anymore, and he idled into the kitchen to make some tea. As usual, the whole surface of the kitchen table was cluttered with the remnants and apparatus from several different experiments, plus a day's worth of stained mugs and crumb-covered plates.

"You realise this," John said, gesturing towards the table, "will have to change once you have a toddler exploring the place."

Sherlock sighed in response, as though John was stating the obvious. But just a cursory glance of the flat revealed several dozen glaring hazards to life, some of which Sherlock had assured him he would deal with before Rosie found her feet.

"I fully recognise that experiments of a complex and scientific nature are not compatible with a safe developmental environment for an infant," Sherlock replied. "And although I concede that while it's likely my son will inherit his father's early grasp of independent mobility – on that score, amongst many, thank god he's not Mycroft's child – I think I have several months before I need to give that matter any serious thought."

John raised his eyebrows. Despite Sherlock's fairly hands-on approach to being a godfather, his friend hadn't yet experienced that unique, all-consuming cold-sweat fear of what could befall your own child.

"We'll see," John said, his hand on the fridge door. "Although I think you need to keep the midwife visits to Molly's place. I might be wrong, but I don't think she'd look too kindly on body parts in the fridge."

He heard Sherlock sigh, as though he was a teenage boy being scolded by his grandmother.

"No bloody milk. Of course," John said. "Human tissue, but no bloody milk. Don't suppose you fancy popping out to get some?"

"Can't," Sherlock replied, setting down his violin on the desk. It was with a spark of gleeful schadenfreude that John realised there would be sticky, inquisitive hands all in easy reach of that Strat.

"Molly's coming over," he added.

John immediately searched his brain to see whether this rang a bell.

"I told you," Sherlock insisted.

"Are you sure you didn't tell the version of me in your mind palace?"

Sherlock tilted his head to one side, conceding, it seemed, that it could be the case.

"On second thoughts, I will go out for the milk," John said. "I don't want a repeat of last Monday."

It wasn't that John didn't want to see his daughter's godmother, but more that he'd seen a bit too much of her a few days ago. Sherlock, though, seemed typically unrepentant.

"You weren't supposed to be here," he retorted. "Remember? You were supposed to be following up some leads with Lestrade."

John certainly rued the fact that Lestrade had been called away on a case. Arriving home early and finding his friend and his friend's significant other in what could kindly be described as a compromising situation made him wish he could delete things in the way that Sherlock apparently could.

"Isn't Molly working today?" John asked, distractedly, patting his pockets as though small change could miraculously appear.

"Only this morning," he replied. "We've got that appointment."

"Appointment?"

"The twenty-week thing."

It took a couple of moments for the words to sink in and for his brain to catch up.

"Your twenty-week scan is today? That's something you might have liked to mention before."

Sherlock gave him a quizzical look.

"Why? Is it imperative that you be there, too?"

It was difficult to tell whether Sherlock was being facetious, but he decided he probably wasn't.

"No," John sighed. "It's just a fairly big milestone in a pregnancy, that's all. Good that you're going with her."

He saw Sherlock frown at this.

"Why wouldn't I?"

He made a fair point; after all, Sherlock had gone along to the twelve-week scan and, from what John understood, had behaved moderately well (though John had been forced to remind him that it's generally not a good idea to piss off the entire obstetric department at the hospital shortly before the birth of your child).

"No reason," John said eventually. "It's just good."

Sherlock was still eyeing him, clearly wounded by John's questioning.

"Cash?" John continued, picking up his jacket from the back of a dining chair. "For the milk?"

A response wasn't even required – a momentary furrow of Sherlock's brow was enough. Of course not.

"Fine," John said, resigned to making an out-of-the-way trip to the cash machine. "Are you going to find out the sex, by the way?"

"Don't need to," Sherlock replied. "It's a boy."

John gave a short, exasperated laugh.

"Right," he nodded. "Allowing for the fact that you obviously have divine powers, wouldn't you at least like science to confirm it?"

Sherlock started to make himself a cup of coffee, his caffeine tastes not hampered by the lack of milk.

"Molly doesn't want to find out," he said, selecting a mug that John could have sworn until recently contained several human toes. "Wants it to be a surprise, or some such thing. I've never understood the point of surprises – why wouldn't a person want to be equipped with all the facts available to them?"

John smiled. At least these days he could be fairly confident that Sherlock wouldn't say such a thing to Molly's face.

"Perhaps it's because facts are so readily available these days," he shrugged. "I guess there aren't many opportunities left in the world for genuine surprises. And I suppose it ultimately doesn't change anything about how you prepare for the next twenty weeks – or the eighteen years after that."

"I think that's more or less what Molly said," Sherlock agreed. "Though I think she might just be trying to torment me, too."

John smirked.

"Well, as long as you resist the urge to crow about it in the delivery room if you turn out to be right," he told his friend. "You might find yourself ejected from the ward – and possibly from Molly's affections."

"A bit Not Good?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, a bit Not Good," John agreed, smiling. He started to head for the door when he heard Sherlock clear his throat with a short cough; John knew this meant that Sherlock had something further to say, something that he was finding it difficult to broach.

"John," Sherlock said carefully, once they were both facing each other again. "You'll tell me, won't you? If I'm doing things – or saying things – that are a bit Not Good."

John smiled. This was a man who, not so long ago, couldn't care less about the opinions and feelings of others, but John understood now what was at stake for his friend – and how the feelings of one person in particular were now at the heart of everything he did. And how his own feelings were now held in the hands of that very same person.

"I always do, don't I?" John said.

Sherlock pursed his lips and then gave a small nod.

"Thank you, John," he replied, a surprisingly serious timbre in his voice.

At that moment, Sherlock's attention was caught by something – the sound of a car pulling up to the kerb beneath them (the sort of commonplace noise that John had filtered out long ago). His demeanour immediately changed, and he sprang over to the window. Sweeping up his coat and scarf in one movement, Sherlock headed towards the door to the flat, almost opening it in John's face.

"Stand aside, Dr Watson," he said with a flourish. "Mustn't keep a pregnant woman waiting."


	2. Chapter 2

It had gone well, all things considered. Sherlock had reigned in his compulsion to be a smart-arse to medical professionals, with only a couple of raised eyebrows and puzzled expressions from the staff on the antenatal wing. Molly looked across at him now in the cab; he was on his phone as always, but his other hand held hers on the seat between them, his thumb idly stroking the back of her hand. She smiled to herself. They seemed to have adapted to the changed nature of their relationship almost seamlessly – although Molly knew that there things about Sherlock, things she was discovering, that he would never want to be shared more publically. His tactility was one of them; from the first night they spent together, it seemed he couldn't get enough of touching her – not that Molly was ever likely to complain, given how many years they'd deprived each other of this particular sensory thrill.

Molly flipped through the flimsy print-outs they'd been given by the hospital. To be honest, the 12-week shots were arguably clearer, and nothing could match that rush of emotion at seeing their child for the first time – but now their baby almost filled the screen, and that brought home the imminence of parenthood all the more. She'd stolen a look at Sherlock, and for once – for a second - he looked like a man who wasn't certain about the world around him.

The midwife had carried out the measurements on the screen, telling them with a smile that the baby had "long arms and legs, like daddy". Sherlock had clearly been doing his best not to give any reaction to this, but Molly saw the corners of his mouth curl upwards, almost imperceptibly, as soon as the midwife turned back to her monitor. The baby was also incredibly restless like daddy, and seemed to take advantage of her every resting moment to start working up a beat on her insides.

"Kicking again," she announced idly.

Immediately, Sherlock reached across the gap between them, his hand going to her stomach. She guided it around to the spot where the baby seemed most active.

"That's a fist," he replied, confidently. "A pugilist, like his father. Although his mother does a pretty mean open-handed slap, too."

He slid her a sly smile.

That day in the lab, following John and Mary's wedding, seemed like it belonged to a different lifetime. Saying that, there'd been a day a couple of weeks ago when, flushed with hormones, she'd been overcome by a dread that the drugs would someday return. It seemed to take Sherlock a while to understand her fear – to him, it seemed obvious that the drugs (and his need to get high, whatever it took) were behind him. He had apologised, reminded her that he was still working on empathy (though he didn't expect to extend it to a very wide circle) and told her, deadpan, that he was "high on love instead." Molly hadn't been able to help it – she'd collapsed, half-laughing, half-sobbing into his chest, while Sherlock tried to figure out what on earth was going on. She did feel slightly sorry for him – he'd picked a difficult time to start getting in touch with his emotions.

"You sure you don't mind going back to Baker Street for a while?" he said, his fingers sliding back from her stomach to hold her hand again.

"No," she replied. "As long as I'm allowed to sit in your chair and watch crap telly."

"My chair? I bought you your own chair, especially."

Molly loved her yellow chair, almost as much as the thought that Sherlock bought it for her before they were even together – it reassured her that, despite the fact that their relationship turned on a dime one night six months ago, he had been thinking about making her a more permanent presence in his life.

"Your chair's big enough for two," she reminded him.

"Oh, well if that's what you've got in mind," he said, arching an eyebrow. "I'm going to have to send John out for more than just milk."

"I'm talking about the two of us," she told him, patting her stomach and suppressing a smile. "Anyway, I think we need to be on our best behaviour after last week. I'm still not sure whether I can look John in the eye."

"Nothing he hasn't seen before," Sherlock shrugged.

Molly laughed.

"I can assure you that he hasn't seen it before, Sherlock."

"Oh. Well, yes, obviously not. Good. But female nudity in general. Not that you were…completely."

"Put it this way, Sherlock - John and I are friends, and I have no interest in seeing him without his clothes on."

Sherlock snorted.

"Yes, as the man who has shared a flat with him on and off for nearly eight years, I wouldn't recommend it."

Molly smiled, and Sherlock returned to his phone. Mention of the flat at Baker Street started Molly off down one of her recent, regular trains of thought; neither of them had spoken yet about living arrangements once the baby arrived. She felt she had to work on the basis that her house would be home, at least for her and the baby – after all, Sherlock had given her no indication that they would move in together or, if they did, where that would be. He loved 221B and she would never ask him to leave it, but it wasn't exactly a family home – she shuddered when she thought about Rosie's easy access to a full spectrum of lab chemicals and bacterial cultures. But, however much Sherlock might try to feign nonchalance to those around them, Molly had seen him sneaking glances on his phone at the photo from the 12-week scan – he wouldn't want to be living apart from his child.

The cab pulled up in Baker Street and Sherlock paid the driver. He came around to Molly's side of the car and took her hand to help her out. She still wondered whether had John had drilled these gestures into him, or whether this chivalry was coming naturally – whichever way, he took her hand for the few paces leading to the front door.

"I'll come up in a minute," Molly said, once they were in the hallway. "I said I'd pop in and see Mrs Hudson when we got back."

"Please do not take up her inevitable offer of further relationship advice, Molly," Sherlock replied. He had a slightly pained look on his face, and she knew he hated his landlady knowing that he had a softer side.

"Oh, I don't know," Molly replied, smiling. "She was right the last time, wasn't she? Something about things getting back on track during the second trimester…"

She saw the recognition register immediately on Sherlock's face, quickly followed by another look with which she was now very familiar.

"Okay, now you definitely need to be quick," he said, his pupils visibly dilating. "I'll get rid of John – he should probably take Rosie for some fresh air, as that's apparently a thing for babies – and put Lestrade off till this later – it only looked like a 5 anyway, 6 at best – and then I'll wait for you. I'm not good at waiting, though, so probably best if you don't keep me waiting long."

Molly laughed, feeling the blush rise in her cheeks; she wondered how long this 'honeymoon' phase in their relationship would last, and how Sherlock would feel when he had to compete with a baby for her attentions. She arched onto tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his lips, which he returned with a dramatic flourish before turning to the stairs – and tripping halfway up them in his haste.

"Whatever you may think you saw, you didn't," he mumbled, as Molly giggled and watch him go.


	3. Chapter 3

John, John, how to get rid of John. Not so long ago he couldn't have cared less about how he did it as long as he got the right result – but now Sherlock felt that perhaps he should try not to hurt his friend's feelings. Particularly as John, he knew, was going to be useful when the baby arrived and, god help him, he was sure to need – he shuddered at the mere word – 'advice'.

He was starting to formulate a plan in his head when he threw open the door to the flat to find that he had a visitor.

"Good afternoon, brother mine."

"Christ!"

"No. Guess again."

Among other things, his brother was a very efficient douse of cold water on his libido. When Sherlock had sufficiently recovered, he saw something else in his peripheral vision. John was at the kitchen table, feeding Rosie in her highchair.

"Why didn't you warn me he was here?" Sherlock demanded.

"Firstly, could you please not swear quite so openly in front of my impressionable daughter?" John replied, his hand poised with a spoonful of something orange and disgusting-looking. "And secondly, he told me you were expecting him."

Sherlock turned back to glare at Mycroft, who smiled back at him, beatifically. While sitting in Sherlock's chair.

"That hardly seems very plausible now, John, does it?" Sherlock asked, not removing his eyes from his brother.

"Don't blame me," John muttered. "I came back with the milk and found him here."

"So you didn't work out I was here?" Mycroft said, rising from the chair. "Losing your touch, little brother. Or perhaps you were…a little distracted?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the looks John was throwing at him.

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"I like what you've done with the place," his brother continued, ignoring him, ambling across the room until he was standing beside a particular piece of furniture. "This is an interesting piece. Yellow not really your colour, though, is it Sherlock?"

Now he got it.

Sherlock turned on his heels and flung open the door.

"Change of plan, Molly!" he called. "We're going to your place!"

As he clattered down the stairs, there was a knock at the front door. He froze. He sensed his brother above him, framed in the doorway to the flat.

"Perhaps you should get that, Sherlock," Mycroft smiled. "I rather think it might be our parents."

Sherlock looked up at his brother, then down at the front door. It was a trap, the very worst kind of trap that Mycroft could have devised. A thousand competing thoughts reeled through his brain, but all of them were bad and none of them were rescuing him from this hell.

Defeat settling heavily on his shoulders, Sherlock swung open the front door.

"Sherlock!"

His parents indeed.

Wanda Holmes launched herself at her younger son, engulfing him in a hug. As always, Sherlock remained stiff-armed, bravely bracing himself until it was all over. Well, over until his father decided to get in on the act, too. So much bloody hugging.

Sherlock was all set to bustle them both back out of the front door to – well, to anywhere, really – when the door to Mrs Hudson's flat opened.

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

It was Molly, with Mrs Hudson standing at her shoulder.

He immediately felt all articulacy leave him, as he saw Molly's eyes flick between him and his parents, and his mother look from him to his now-quite-obviously-pregnant pathologist. God, Mycroft had him by the balls here.

"Mummy, Daddy," said Mycroft, now standing only a few steps above Sherlock. "How lovely you could come. Sherlock has some wonderful news for you both."

A few minutes later, Sherlock was in the middle of the most hideous scenario he had faced in his adult life. Mind Palace John was telling him not to be a drama queen, but this was painful. His mother sat in John's chair, his father in his own; John was keeping well out of things by hovering at the boundary of the kitchen with Rosie, and Mycroft was hovering in his faux-sinister way over by the desk. Molly, poor Molly, was sitting in her chair, and he could barely look her in the eye. Thank god Mrs Hudson had a hair appointment she had to go to – although Sherlock had sensed she was very keen to cancel that last-minute.

Sherlock threw a glower in Mycroft's direction, but before he had the chance to take control of the situation, his mother spoke again.

"I'm sorry, dear," Wanda said, addressing Molly. "I didn't catch your name in all the confusion."

"Molly. Molly Hooper."

"Sherlock's pathologist," Mycroft put in.

This seemed to register something with his parents.

"Ah! You helped William out when he was in a spot of trouble a couple of years back," Timothy Holmes said. "Something about a corpse, and faking some paperwork."

Sherlock looked at Molly, who smiled uneasily. Trust his father to refer to Moriarty as a 'spot of trouble', as if Molly had got him off a parking charge or something. And trust him to use his real first name, too.

"Is…" his mother began, her gaze bouncing between him and Molly. "Is this what it looks like?"

She was smiling, looking fit to burst. Mycroft had to be loving this.

Sherlock sighed, locking his hands behind his back.

"Yes, Mother, Molly is expecting a baby, and yes, that baby is mine. Any questions? None. Wonderful. Now you can all be on your way," he said, quickly, adding. "Not you Molly, obviously. And John, you and Rosie can stay, too. Basically, anyone here who is related to me needs to leave."

"Well, there's one person related to you who can't leave," Mycroft said, haughtily.

"Shut up, Mycroft!"

Their parents seemed to be ignoring them both, because the next thing Sherlock knew his mother and father were trying to hug Molly. How did they both suddenly move so fast? His father had had two knee replacements, for god's sake, and his mother was forever complaining about her back.

"I think they're offering Dr Hooper their sympathy," Mycroft shot at Sherlock.

"Shut up, Mycroft!" – this time, it was from John. And Mycroft actually looked slightly rebuked by this.

Molly seemed to be coping well with his parents' overbearing attentions – in fact, her smile looked genuine. He heard snatches of questions about her health, how many weeks, how she was managing. Should he rescue her? Did she need rescuing?

"Such a shame that Sherlock didn't think mention before about the, ah, changed nature of his relationship with Dr Hooper," Mycroft said. His brother was on a mission. "I'm sure we would all have been delighted to share in their happiness."

"Be quiet, Mycroft!" Mrs Holmes snapped.

Sherlock inwardly cheered, but his joy was short-lived.

"But he has a point, Sherlock," she continued. "Molly tells me she's twenty weeks pregnant, so even your father could work out that this, this…change in your life…didn't happen yesterday. I know it's customary to wait a little while before letting people know, but we're your family – we didn't even know you were in a relationship, for goodness sake!"

"Mycroft is sleeping with Lady Alicia Smallwood!" Sherlock blurted.

Hang on, where did that come from? He felt the eyes of everyone in the room on him, but he wasn't seeing the reactions he expected – at least not from his parents and Mycroft. John appeared shocked and mildly disgusted, while Molly just looked confused.

"Yes, we know," Wanda Holmes replied simply. "She came up to ours for tea last weekend."

Sherlock looked to his brother, who narrowed his eyes and smiled innocently. Damn! That had been his trump card; he'd been holding onto it as leverage for a much more serious situation than this one.

"Frankly, that was a bit of a shock as well," Mr Holmes put in. "We didn't see that one coming on any level. I wish you boys would think of my heart before you spring these things on us."

"I didn't spring this on you, Father" Sherlock responded, through gritted teeth. "Mycroft did. You need to have words with your eldest son about his surveillance activities – I think they might be veering into voyeurism."

"Hardly!" Mycroft scoffed. "It was a playground-level deduction. And you can't blame me for taking an avuncular interest."

"Avuncular!"

"In the literal sense of the word, Sherlock – as in 'relating to an uncle'."

Sherlock squared up to his brother, but Mycroft didn't flinch. Then, without him even noticing, Molly was standing between them.

"You need to stop this," she said, firmly. He recognised that look, and the shame it wrought almost made his knees buckle. A silence fell over the room.

"I love you very much, and I don't mind saying that in front of everyone in this room," Molly continued. "But this isn't what I want for my child."

Sherlock felt as though he had a heavy blockage in his windpipe.

"Mycroft," Molly said, turning to his brother. "The extra surveillance is a kind touch – I know somewhere deep down you mean well - but tracking when and where and how often your brother gets lucky is just weird. And if you've been monitoring my doctor's appointments, I'm politely asking you to stop it."

Sherlock didn't need to look at Mycroft to know that he was admonished. He heard his brother's intake of breath, about to speak, but Molly hadn't finished.

"And I know that you and Sherlock are stuck in a permanent, childish game of one-upmanship, but this is not a game and ambushing him like this today was just really horrible and really unfair."

Despite the utter shame he felt, Sherlock felt the pace of his heart quicken, reminding him that this was one of the myriad reasons that he had fallen in love with Molly Hooper – her strength, her clarity, her willingness to fight for him.

"Wanda, Timothy," Molly continued. "You seem like very nice people, and I'm looking forward to getting to know you better, but – and please believe me that I don't say this to offend you - I think you need to sort out your relationship with your own children before you get involved with ours."

He was desperate to see the look on his mother and father's faces, but didn't dare. Instead, all he saw was Molly; her deep brown eyes came to fix on him again and he yet again felt like the appalling, craven creature who several months ago concocted a scheme to get her pregnant. She didn't look angry with him, just tired, spent, and he felt a sharp pain in his chest.

He heard John clear his throat.

"Molly, would you like to come for a walk with Rosie and me?" he said.

She met Sherlock's glance again briefly before her eyes flicked to the floor, then across to John. She gave a quick nod and, without another word, allowed John to shepherd her out of the room, her hand resting gently on the swell of her belly as she walked.

Before John closed the door to the flat behind him, Sherlock saw him mouth the words "Fix this!"

With a wave of nausea, Sherlock turned back to the three other people left in the room. His parents both looked shell-shocked; Mycroft had the look of a man who had just had his high-horse whipped out from underneath him. So now he had the rest of the afternoon to correct the warped family dynamic that they had all lived with for the past thirty-five years.


	4. Chapter 4

"Mycroft, this is all your fault!"

Before Sherlock had had a chance to speak, his mother had started in on his older sibling. Usually a good thing, but for god's sake, he needed to wrench back control of this situation.

"You led us to believe that Sherlock was expecting us today," she continued. "And now look what's happened. That lovely girl is devastated!"

Sherlock noted that his brother couldn't meet their mother's eye, but he also knew Mycroft wouldn't go down without a fight.

"Doesn't it irk you at least somewhat, Mummy, that not only did Sherlock keep from you the fact that he has a significant other, but he also didn't think it important to inform you of the imminent arrival of your first grandchild?"

"Twenty weeks is not imminent, Mycroft!" Sherlock growled. Damn! His brother was drawing him into this and he knew it.

"Oh, so you were going to tell them?" Mycroft replied. "When? Before your child leaves for university?"

"That's enough, Myc," their father put in. "Molly was right, we need to talk about these things civilly and rationally."

"But why didn't you tell us, William?" Wanda Holmes said, almost wailing. "When it's such wonderful news? You do understand that it's wonderful news?"

"Yes, Mother, I understand that perfectly," Sherlock replied. "But it's our wonderful news, mine and Molly's."

His mother made a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a howl.

"But this is something to share with your family!"

"Yes, and I have shared it with John and Mrs Hudson downstairs, and some other close acquaintances," Sherlock said. They wouldn't like this, he knew.

"Family, Sherlock!" Mrs Holmes continued, admonishing him. "Molly seems so sweet and lovely - we'd have loved to meet her sooner. And what about her parents, do they know?"

"They're both dead," Sherlock told them, plainly.

"I'm not convinced you wouldn't rather we were as well," his mother retorted.

Well, that would certainly be easier, Sherlock inwardly conceded. Damnit, he was already being side-tracked by his mother's emotional blackmail; his family all had their assigned roles, and it was impossible to get them to behave otherwise.

"Let's try and focus on the positives, shall we?" his father put in, true to form. "We've had some lovely news today, after all. Welcoming two new people into our family."

Sherlock sighed, running a hand through his slightly tangled curls. Times of stress were hell on his hair.

"In case you hadn't noticed, Father, but neither of those 'new people' you speak of are here any longer," he said. "I don't know, perhaps it was something someone said?"

"Meaning, little brother?" Mycroft smarmed.

"Meaning that there is a very good reason why I hadn't told any of you about either my relationship with Molly or the fact that I'm going to become a father, and if any of you had an iota of self-awareness, you wouldn't remain oblivious to that reason," Sherlock replied, in a reasoned tone of which he was immediately proud. "It's the same reason why Christmas dinner and other family occasions are always hell, and it's the same reason that Molly walked out of that door not five minutes ago. She's known you – Mother, Father – for all of twenty minutes and she already knows the truth."

"What are you talking about?" Mrs Holmes asked, clasping a hand to her chest. She was always so dramatic – no wonder Mycroft had taken to the stage in his youth.

"We are a terrible family!" Sherlock exclaimed, carefully annunciating each word so even his mother couldn't misconstrue his meaning. "We keep secrets from each other, we manipulate each other, we do unspeakable things to each other – and we act as though it's completely normal."

"Says the man who drugged his parents and brother before they'd even had a chance to digest Christmas dinner," muttered Mycroft, glancing down at his no-doubt-recently-manicured nails.

"I'm including myself in this, brother mine," Sherlock fired back. "But when I'm with Molly I feel free of it, free of that…expectation…that trap. John tells me I should see a therapist after everything that's happened, everything that's come to light, but I don't need a therapist, I just need this woman, this woman who loves me in spite of everything I am – believe it or not, because of everything of am. I always did need Molly, but it was only after everything that happened at Sherrinford that I realised all the ways in which I need her. Of course, I recognise the great irony in that I may not have acknowledged those feelings it wasn't for my family – Eurus, for her ability to deduce me like no other, and you, big brother, for your catalogue of misjudgements. But forgive me if I'm not in the mood to give you my thanks."

"The security detail on Dr Hooper is now of the highest level I am able to authorise," Mycroft replied. This, Sherlock knew, was his brother's unique attempt at both an apology and a peace offering.

"Yes, and she's finding that creepy," Sherlock replied. "So do it better. And don't worry, I'm going to think of some other things you can do by way of an apology, too."

There was no immediate comeback from his brother, and Sherlock gradually realised that he was looking at three expressions that he'd never seen before – not all at the same time, anyway. Contrition? Regret? Shame? And the silence! This was the first time in living memory that one of the Holmes family wasn't trying to talk over at least one of the others.

He was going to damn well take advantage of this strange planetary alignment.

"You made me what I am," he said, his gaze moving between sibling and parents. "By what you did and didn't do, what you told and decided not to tell me. I know it wasn't your intention, but you destroyed the notion of 'family' for me. Molly has rebuilt it – made me want it more than anything else in this world."

By the time he reached the end of the sentence, he could hear his heart pounding. When he looked up again, he could see tears in his mother's eyes; his father's hand crept across her lap to grasp her fingers.

"I…we are sorry," Wanda Holmes said, finally. "I know we've tried to talk about it already, but it's…well, it's taking time for your father and I to come to terms with everything, too. I don't think we're doing very well."

Timothy Holmes covered his wife's hand with his. Sherlock immediately felt muscle memory kick in, recalling how tenderly Molly had responded to him after the phone call from Sherrinford. How calming he found her touch, the peace it gave him.

"Can we agree that we'll all try to do better?" his father asked. There was pointed look towards Mycroft, although his words were an appeal to Sherlock.

"Despite the way you boys behave and despite how we might interact as a family, I know we all care about each other," he continued. "And now we have other family members to care for, too. If you'll let us, Sherlock."

Sherlock swallowed.

"That's up to Molly," he replied.

He already knew what Molly's answer would be; her heart was too big and too generous for her to refuse (a characteristic to which he owed his own happiness) . This meant, Sherlock realised wearily, that impending fatherhood was no longer his biggest challenge over the next few months.

Almost immediately, both of his parents were out of their chairs and – dear god – here were the hugs. Molly would have used this for one of her attempts at humour – a Sherlock Sandwich, or some such thing.

"My lovely boy!" Wanda Holmes declared, Sherlock feeling his neck grow slightly damp from his mother's now-happy tears (he could see Mycroft, damn him, trying – and failing miserably – to suppress a smirk).

"Oh, we have so many questions!" Mrs Holmes continued.

"No."

"Please, darling!"

Sherlock made a show of looking at his watch.

"In approximately twenty-seven minutes, Molly will be arriving back at her house and I will be there to greet her. This means I need to depart Baker Street in – oh – four minutes, if I'm to have time enough to pick up some small token of apology on my way. Therefore, Mother, Father, you have what time that remains."

He knew his mother would take full advantage of this window of opportunity.

"Where did you meet Molly?"

"Pathology lab at Bart's Hospital, seven and a half years ago."

"So what-?"

"Took me so long? Blame Mycroft. Or ask John – he tends to understand these things more than I, plus he's always good for an entertaining theory."

"Is it a boy or girl?"

"Boy."

"He doesn't know that for sure," Mycroft sighed.

"Boy," Sherlock repeated. "Next."

"Are you going to get married?"

"Don't know, haven't asked. Are we finished now?"

"Where's the baby going to live?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again as a thought raced across his brain.

"Something I've been meaning to speak to Mycroft about," he replied, glancing across to his brother, who immediately raised an eyebrow, curious. "Seeing as he's so keen to make amends."


	5. Chapter 5

Molly loved Regent's Park, and how it was possible to spend all day there when the weather was nice – or nice for London – without ever retracing your steps. She and John had stopped by The Espresso Bar, as John made no bones about the fact that he was gasping for a caffeine fix, and Molly had settled for a steaming hot tea. They'd opted to keep walking rather than sit indoors, particularly given that Rosie was asleep thanks only to the constant motion of her pushchair.

"You know, I never really appreciated this place until after Rosie was born," John said, taking a sip of coffee. "The miles I must have put in with this pushchair over the last year or so!"

"I think Sherlock forgets it's even here," she replied, only half-joking. He seemed to be completely unaware of the incredible location of his flat, and its envious proximity to the hub of one of the world's greatest cities. He only cared about its proximity to a diverse variety of crime scenes.

"Just you wait. He'll be out here with a pram just like the rest of us desperate parents," John smiled. "For some reason the crying is easier to take out in the open."

Molly laughed. The idea of Sherlock pushing a pram at all was quite surreal – somehow more surreal than the idea of him wearing a baby-carrier, which John had already promised to pass on to her.

"I wonder how he's getting on," John mused, smiling into his coffee.

Molly sighed.

"I shouldn't have said that," she said. "It was…it sounded terrible."

But John was shaking his head vigorously.

"No, no, it was about time somebody said it," he replied. "And Molly, you were a lot kinder than anyone else would be. Sherlock's parents and brother have a lot to answer for – and Mycroft should have damn well known better."

"But that's his family," she said, suddenly wishing she'd answered differently when the barista tried to upsell her a pastry. "For better or worse, that's where Sherlock comes from. I don't know…I just…I suppose I can't help thinking about my own situation."

"You mean that it's a waste?"

"I would give anything to have either of my parents still with me," she replied. "And I always wanted a sibling."

"Be careful what you wish for," John laughed. "Sherlock and Mycroft take some beating, but Harry and I aren't exactly the poster-children for good sibling relationships either."

They walked in silence for a few moments.

"But I agree," he added, eventually. "His mother and father basically love him and want him in their lives. I suppose I wish I had that, too."

What Molly knew about John's background had mostly been gleaned from conversations with Mary. John's parents were both living, but although there had been no big falling-out, no catalyst, they had all gradually become estranged. Medical school and the army had been a way out for John; alcohol had been Harry's means of escape.

"It wasn't a great first impression to leave on your consulting detective's parents," Molly continued.

John's face twisted into an amused smile.

"You and Sherlock are determined not to refer to each other as 'boyfriend' and 'girlfriend', aren't you?" he said.

"Just feels a bit…weird, that's all," Molly replied. At first, she had been slightly upset that Sherlock always introduced her as his pathologist or simply by her name, but the normal designations did seem inadequate. 'Partner' was even worse – John was Sherlock's partner, she was something completely different.

"Well, you are both a bit weird, Molls," John smiled. "So I think you get away with it."

"I threatened to call him my baby-daddy," she giggled, remembering one evening just before the first ultrasound scan. She hadn't been sure how she would introduce Sherlock at the hospital.

John barked with laughter.

"How did he take that?"

"I think he nearly shot another hole in the wall."

They reached a bench, and John suggested they sit, recognising – quite rightly – that her feet and ankles were starting to throb. Molly liked to keep active, and had managed to do so throughout the pregnancy, but the sheer mass she was now carrying sometimes won the day.

"By the way, I actually thought it was a great first impression," John continued. "With the Holmes family, you have to show them you mean business. Your life, your baby, your rules."

Molly set the tea down on the bench beside her. They were sitting opposite the Japanese Garden Island, which always took her out of London momentarily – it was hard to believe they were so close to the city's main arteries.

"I suppose I'm angry, too" she conceded. "For Sherlock, I mean. About what they hid from him, what they made him believe. It shaped his life! I mean, god, would he even have developed a drug habit if none of that had happened? Do you think they've thought about that?"

John shrugged slightly.

"I think Mycroft probably has," he replied. "I don't know the details, but I think he's supported Sherlock through that on numerous occasions."

Molly felt her hackles rise again.

"Yes, well, I should think that's the least that man can do," she said. "Given that it seems as though he basically mentored, moulded his little brother into a useful tool for his own means. I can't help thinking that Sherlock's life could have been different, less painful, less isolated."

She felt John's hand go to her shoulder, rubbing it slightly.

"But then you probably wouldn't have fallen madly in love with him when he invaded your lab all those years ago!"

Against her inner protests, Molly felt herself pouting slightly.

"Was it that obvious?"

"I can still remember the day I first met you both. Sherlock may have been totally oblivious – and behaved like a complete cock - but I knew a crush when I saw it."

Now she was blushing. God, that was the horrible day she asked Sherlock out for coffee, after weeks of building up to it – and the thing with the lipstick, too.

John drained his coffee and tucked the paper cup into the pocket on the side of Rosie's changing bag.

"But Sherlock Holmes is a bloody lucky man," he said, leaning back into the bench. "Lucky that you were still waiting for him when he finally realised what was right in front of him. He's got the rest of his life to make that up to you, Molls, and you make sure that he does. I'll remind him from time to time, too."

John's hand rested on his knee, and Molly covered it with her own, leaning into him slightly in a gesture of appreciation. She was grateful for his friendship, grateful that someone was rooting for them. It still made her terribly sad to think about what he had lost, and she knew, too, that it was only thanks to Mary that she and Sherlock got their chance and now had a future – as she cradled the unwieldly bump that was now her middle, she acknowledged that they had Mary to thank for their baby.

"Have you two talked about names, yet?" John asked.

"Not really, no," Molly replied. "I've been thinking about girls' names a bit, mostly because Sherlock says it's a waste of his time."

John gave a short laugh.

"As I said, Molly, he's bloody lucky to have you. 'Course, Hamish is still on the table if you need it."

"Thanks," Molly smiled. "Maybe if I threaten to call the baby Mycroft he might start being a bit more helpful."

John's head dropped back as he laughed. Molly glanced at the pushchair where Rosie continued to sleep, oblivious to the noise of the park and the hum of the not-so-far-away traffic. Everywhere she looked she saw families; babies in brightly-coloured, highly-engineered prams, toddlers hoisted onto shoulders, children chasing ducks and pigeons. Where would she and Sherlock fit in with this? Perhaps, she smiled drily to herself, she should have thought about that before she allowed the heat of unexpected passion to come before safe sex.

"You do know he's crazy about you, though?" John said, as though somehow accessing her thoughts, her uncertainties. "I mean, crazy even by Sherlock's standards. His world now starts and ends with you – and the baby."

Molly nodded; it was no small thing to be certain of.

"Mary would be over the moon about all this," he continued, a careful tone in his voice. Molly immediately looked up at the mention of her friend. John was smiling wistfully. "She loved Sherlock and she loved you, and to see Rosie's godparents so happy together, expectant parents themselves, she…well, she would have been beyond thrilled. Ecstatic."

"I wish she was here," Molly told him. "I wish that every day."

John nodded, staring out across the park.

"Yeah. But I know she would be proud of Sherlock, too. I can't think too closely about what was going through her head that day, but she wanted him to live – and now he has a life really worth living."

Molly briefly touched a hand to his knee.

"Although, next time you two decide to have sex in the living room, for god's sake please lock the front door!" John said, laughing.

Molly couldn't help joining in, despite the warmth she now felt in her cheeks and the memory of that deeply mortifying moment in 221B .

"I don't think we decided exactly," she said, trying to suppress giggles. "I'm sorry."

"Well, at least one of you is," John said, cocking his head to one side.

A cold breeze had begun to sweep across the park as the afternoon started to fade. The night-shift at Bart's was only a few hours away, and Molly was aware of how much longer it took her to get ready for work these days.

"I should get back," she said, as their laughter subsided. "To my place, I mean."

John glanced across at his sleeping daughter.

"Me too. Well, to Baker Street. I'm pushing my luck here – if she wakes up now, she'll be demanding snacks and insisting on feeding the ducks."

Molly accepted John's offer of help to haul her off the bench (god, pregnancy was so undignified sometimes – well, most of the time).

"I'll walk you back to the Tube," he said, zipping up his jacket and tucking Rosie's errant hand back into the quilted footmuff of the pram. "And for god's sake, Molls, let's go via the coffee place – I know you're dying for one of those bloody pastries."

Molly laughed, her stomach growling in reaction to the suggestion. Fortified by friendship and baked goods, she knew she'd be ready to deal with the Holmes family again very soon.


	6. Chapter 6

He didn't have to wait long. Of course, he could have just let himself into Molly's flat with the key she'd finally provided him with a few years ago – or picked the lock (he liked to test himself from time to time) – but it seemed important this time to wait for permission. Sherlock immediately felt a sense of peace whenever he reached Molly's door; it had taken him a long time to figure out what that feeling was, but he knew it kept driving him back there. It had been by far his favourite bolthole over the years – hardly surprising, given that it provided him with a comfortable bed, proper food and a woman who understood him absolutely. Occasionally, the comfortable bed and said woman had been at his disposal at the same time; warm, comforting embraces under the duvet that were supposedly strictly platonic, but had undoubtedly awakened something in Sherlock so that they became like a new drug of choice.

Molly appeared at her gate clad in hat, gloves and one of her ridiculously colourful scarves – and a warmth immediately spread across Sherlock's chest. And she was smiling at him – a small, questioning smile, but a smile nonetheless. That was fine – he had something to work with.

"What have you done with your family?" she asked, coming down the short path towards him. "Please reassure me that none of them are going to turn up at the morgue tonight."

He felt his mouth twitch into a slight smile.

"Don't be ridiculous, Molly," he replied. "I know all the best places for disposing with bodies in the Greater London area."

He got up from where he'd been sitting on the top step, collecting up the box that had been sitting beside him. She approached him, took a step up so that their eyes were level and a wider smile spread across her face.

"You're lucky you're so bloody gorgeous," she said, shaking her head.

"No, I'm just lucky that I found a beautiful woman with an unusual predilection for sociopaths," Sherlock replied.

Molly giggled (god, he loved that laugh, and always felt a swell of pride and happiness when he was the cause).

"What's in the box?" she asked.

"It was hard to think of something that said 'sorry my family are arseholes', so…"

He held out the flat box to Molly, enabling her to lift the lid. Inside was a giant cookie, iced with the very words 'Sorry my family are arseholes'. Molly's eyes widened before she dissolved into laughter again; Sherlock's heart performed a complicated acrobatic manoeuvre in his chest as her eyes met his.

"It's perfect," she told him.

"Apparently, it wasn't the strangest request they'd had today," he replied. "But then most human beings are appalling and have a lot to apologise for."

"Well, I've just eaten a pastry on the way back from the park, so I might have to save that for later. But thank you."

Molly pushed herself up on tiptoes and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Instinctively, Sherlock caught her elbow to hold her in place, losing himself in the unique and heady experience that was Molly Hooper.

"Can I come in?" he asked, when they eventually separated.

She looked up at him, surprised.

"I assumed you would," she said. "Though you know my shift starts in less than two hours, so after that it's just you and Tobes."

"Actually," Sherlock began, ignoring the bait about her feline flatmate. "You've got the night off."

"What?"

"I called Stamford, explained you'd had a traumatising day, you were exhausted -"

"Sherlock, you can't go around re-organising my life like that!" Molly exclaimed, finally locating her key in her bag. She looked up for a second, sighing, glanced down to her stomach. "I mean any more than you already have."

He paused for a moment, trying to conjure up Mind Palace John, who would be sure to tell him whether this was a 'bit not good'.

"I'm only twenty weeks pregnant, I feel fine, I'm a professional, and god knows I've had more traumatising things happen to me than meeting your parents!" she added. Sherlock winced a little at the last comment, knowing that a great many of those 'more traumatising' things were of his doing.

"All of those things are true, Molly," he said carefully. "But…after what happened today, there are a few things I was hoping we could discuss."

There was a moment of silence while Molly seemed to be taking in this request, turning it over in her mind.

She sighed.

"Okay, fine," she said, eventually. "Although if one of those things is your brother sleeping with Lady Smallwood, I would rather spend the evening with the recently deceased."

She stepped back to let him into the house, and Sherlock was once again relieved – and thankful beyond words - that such a patient, understanding and morbidly-humoured woman had agreed to share her life with him.

Once indoors, Sherlock divested himself of his Belstaff, hanging it on what he had come to think of his peg on the coatrack (Molly obviously agreed, as she always left it empty), and watched Molly remove her many woollen garments one by one. Almost immediately, The Cat (Sherlock always saw the capitals in his mind) slunk through from the living room and started to wind its way around his ankles. This always seemed to amuse Molly greatly, because while he was doing his very best to act like he didn't mind Molly's beloved pet, they both knew he wasn't doing a very good job. He tried to recall the average lifespan for a domestic cat and came to the conclusion that it was longer than was reasonable.

"Are you eating today?" Molly asked, heading for the kitchen in the knowledge that he would follow. "Because I'm afraid I was just planning on a quick beans on toast before heading to work."

Sherlock moved towards her and wrapped his arms around her waist, aware of just how many hours it had been since he'd touched this woman.

"All taken care of," he told her. "Angelo's is delivering at seven."

Molly looked up at him, frowning.

"Angelo's don't deliver, do they?"

"They do when their favourite customer happens to mention that he's going to be a father."

Molly laughed, swatting him lightly on the chest.

"You're going to milk this for ages, aren't you? Get as many favours and freebies as you can wring out of people."

Sherlock managed to keep a poker face.

"My acquaintances are quite simply expressing their genuine pleasure and regard at this joyful event," he told her. "So, do you want the carbonara when it arrives or shall I feed it to Tobias?"

She thanked him, biting down on a smirk. As he watched her, he saw the expression on her face alter, as though coming back down to earth. This could only be to do with his family – they tended to have that effect on him, too.

"I can't imagine I'll be a welcome guest at your parents' table any time soon," she sighed, toying with one of the buttons on his suit jacket.

Sherlock immediately felt another stab of anger towards his parents and Mycroft, reminded of how uncomfortable they had made Molly feel, how they had once again turned what should have been a happy occasion into another opportunity for the Holmes Family Circus.

"They would be immensely lucky if you were to ever grace their table!" he told her, managing to coax a smile. "Holmes family dinners are notoriously dreadful affairs, and I will do everything in my power to limit your exposure to them."

He saw Molly's brow wrinkle slightly.

"Your parents actually seem…nice, though. They seemed genuinely excited about this, about the baby."

"Yes, well, I imagine it was a shock to discover that one of their socially maladjusted sons had found someone willing to bring a child into the world with him," he replied. "Finally gives my mother a reason to learn to use that phone of hers, too; somehow I think she's going to enjoy 'I'm a grandma' a little more than 'my long-dead daughter is actually alive and in a secure island prison facility'."

Molly prodded him in the chest again, gently scolding him.

"Yes, okay, but I wasn't very nice to them," she continued. "I implied that they weren't very good parents."

"They weren't," Sherlock shot back. "Sometimes nice people aren't necessarily the best parents. But I get the feeling they might be better grandparents – well, at any rate, they aren't going to give us a day's peace."

Molly laughed, and it was yet another occasion where Sherlock recognised he'd made a joke, completely unintentionally. He knew, too, that Molly was a sadist and had a tendency to enjoy his discomfort. She disentangled herself from his arms and led him towards her sofa, where he collapsed before swinging his legs onto the low coffee table.

"Who's William, by the way?" Molly asked suddenly, clearly struggling to keep a sly smile off her face.

Sherlock sighed theatrically before looking at her sideways.

"That would be me," he replied.

"So you're…"

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, yes. My parents have a tendency to forget my preferences when it suits them."

Molly shuffled along the sofa so that her body was flush with his, and he automatically lifted his arm to accommodate her, wrapping it around her shoulder.

"So it was your choice?" she asked.

"Yes."

A pause followed, and he knew what was coming next.

"To be more like Mycroft?"

Sherlock removed his arm from around Molly, and at the same time allowed his feet to clump back down onto the floor.

"Nothing of the sort!" he told her.

He then felt Molly's fingers creep across his shoulder and start to wind through the hair at the nape of his neck.

"I think it's sweet," she said, and Sherlock realised that she didn't seem to be making fun of him anymore. He turned his head to look at Molly, and she was just gazing at him; he could almost see her brain ticking over.

"William," she said, in a tone that he couldn't quite identify. Her small hand reached across and took his, lacing their fingers together; he would never grow tired of seeing that simple sight. Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, revelling in how the mother of his child had an incredible way of making him feel at peace.

"So what about Mycroft?" Molly asked, nudging his hand. "Did your parents send him away with his tail between his legs?"

Sherlock snorted, opening his eyes again.

"I offered him a way out," he said. "A way to make amends. Something that I'm hoping will be agreeable to…well, to everyone concerned."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock took hold of her hand again, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles, an act that once again reminded him that there was something missing from Molly's hand. He swiped that thought away quickly, threatening to send him careening off course – one thing at a time, he reminded himself.

"I'm aware that we haven't yet discussed…living arrangements," he began, feeling the pace of his heart begin to accelerate. "Up to this point, despite our mutual attachment, we have continued to keep quite separate domains. Certainly, I have spent numerous nights here and you have on occasion stayed over at Baker Street, but you are attached to your house and I to my flat. But…I can't see how this arrangement can continue, in the circumstances."

Molly's hand was resting on her gently rounded abdomen, and Sherlock felt another rush of emotion – what was this one? Fear, possibly, mixed with anticipation, excitement, nerves.

"Molly, I want us to all live together, you, me and our son," he continued, feeling that if he barrelled on, he could at least finish what he needed to say. "I want to be there when he wakes up in the morning, if he has a fever at night, when he takes his first steps, when he utters his first, brilliant words. I also want to be the man you need me to be, a man who will support you and love you and whom you will not regret sharing your life with. I would like to be able to express my love for you physically without having to take a deeply frustrating twenty-minute cab ride first. I cannot do any of this properly if we are not inhabiting the same space."

When he dared to peek at Molly, her expression worried him for a moment – was she going to cry?

"Sherlock, are you asking me to move in with you?" she smiled.

"Erm…I think I am, yes," he said, realising she had been able to articulate it far more succinctly. "If that's what you'd like. I mean, I know that it's not a great exchange – giving up a nice house you've worked hard since graduation to buy to move into a slightly dingy and ramshackle rented flat with a very untidy man-child."

Molly laughed, swiping a tear away from her eye.

"It sounds delightful," she smiled. "But…what about John and Rosie?"

Sherlock arched his eyebrows at her.

"That's where my dear brother comes in. I have persuaded him to use his not inconsiderable influence and resources to organise a full renovation of 221C into what I'm sure will be a charming two-bedroom garden flat."

The simplicity of it was sheer genius – it was amazing that he hadn't thought of it before.

Molly was smiling broadly, and wound her arm around his, snuggling into his side.

"Does John know about any of this yet?"

"I sent him a text."

"Might need a bit more than that."

"He'll be fine," Sherlock said, dismissively. "Cheap rent, handy for babysitting, what else could he want?"

Molly frowned.

"Hang on, did you say garden flat? You have a garden?"

"Apparently," Sherlock replied. "Never bothered to look, to be honest. It's possible that Mrs Hudson might be keeping her 'exotic' plants out there at the moment."

"And your home lab?" Molly asked, curling around him to wrap an arm around his middle. "What do we tell the health visitor about that?"

"Converting the attic," he said, enjoying the familiar warmth of her body embracing his. "Another little job for Mycroft."

She leaned back from him, eyeing him with what looked like scepticism.

"And he just agreed to all this?"

As he prepared to reply, Sherlock felt a small wave of nausea pass through him.

"He did impose one condition on me. One that is going to pain me greatly."

"Which was?"

He steeled himself.

"I have to take his place and accompany Mother and Father to a matinee performance of something ghastly called 'Annie, Get Your Gun'," he said, surprised that he was able even to eject the words from his lips.

Molly sniggered.

"Oh, Sherlock, I love a good musical!"

"Impossible when we both know there's no such thing."

"I'll go with them."

"So I -what?"

He had genuinely, actually, in all seriousness performed a double-take. Molly was looking up at him and she didn't appear to be teasing.

"I'll take the ticket and go with your parents," she said simply. "I mean, if they don't mind. It would be as good a time as any for us to get to know each other."

Sherlock couldn't help himself – he took Molly's lovely face in both of his hands and kissed her deeply, making her squeak in surprise before she started to return the gesture. When he finally pulled away, he kept his hands in place.

"Until just now, I was convinced it wasn't possible for me to love you more!"

Molly rolled her eyes - why was she doing that when he was clearly serious? – and looked as though she was about to get up from the sofa when something made her abruptly drop back down again.

"That was a big one!" she exclaimed, a hand to her stomach. Her expression was one of surprise and awe. "They've just been flutters before, but I…I really felt that."

Without another word, Sherlock put first his hand and then his cheek to Molly's abdomen. He felt Molly's fingers thread through his hair as he waited, still as stone. Nothing. Still nothing…

Wham!

Direct hit!

"Ow!" Sherlock exclaimed, reeling back for a second. Then he felt himself chuckling.

"Aahh, be careful of Daddy's cheekbones, sweetheart," Molly said, her own hand joining his on her belly. "Mummy rather likes those."

The moment was not lost on Sherlock. Not just the very real, very tangible presence of the life they had created together, but the first time that he had heard Molly use those designations – Daddy, Mummy. He knew he ought to be both cringing and terrified, but somehow neither of those seemed to apply to how he was feeling.

"Was that another one?" he asked, as he felt a ripple across Molly's abdomen.

Molly giggled.

"No, that was just my stomach," she said. "I can't stop thinking about carbonara."

Sherlock chuckled again, positioning his lips just above her belly button.

"Hold on in there," he told the baby. "Your mother will be consuming a meal very shortly. I know you were expecting beans on toast, but I assure you this will be much better."

At that moment, Molly's cat made one of its terrifying, unexpected pounces onto the back of the sofa, just centimetres from his shoulder. He stretched out, arching his back, before jumping down onto his owner's knee.

"That's what 221B has been missing all this time!" Molly said, her mouth quirking into a smile. "Toby is going to love having so many floors to explore."

Inwardly, Sherlock released a heavy, heartfelt groan of anguish, but somehow he managed not to externalise it. Because this, he knew, was how it needed to be. Molly accepted him with everything that he came with, and even he recognised that a tubby ginger cat (who, let's face it, probably only had a few years left in him) was nothing compared to the horrible mess of baggage that he checked in at her door. He could spend the rest of his life thanking her and it wouldn't be enough.

"Sherlock?" Molly said queryingly, interrupting his thoughts.

"Hmm?"

"I really, really want to start eating that cookie."

He snorted with laughter and pulled Molly into his lap, making Toby spring off the sofa and away to some unseen place. As he kissed her and allowed her to feed him the piece of cookie with the word 'arsehole' iced onto it, Sherlock knew what he'd known all along – that conspiring to get Molly Hooper pregnant five months ago was the best decision he would ever make.

THE END


End file.
